The TV blared infomercials as I slumped into the couch, craving peace. Then came the squeak—*squawk!*—from the living room. My golden retriever, Biscuit, leapt off the rug, a neon green frog squishing in his jaws like a chewy snack. ‘Not again,’ I groaned, eyeing the frog’s plastic eyes wobbling. Biscuit dropped it at my feet, tail wagging like a metronome. I picked up the frog. ‘You’re *so* over this,’ I said, tossing it into the laundry basket. *Squeak.* Biscuit erupted into a bark-fest, pawing the basket until a sock tumbled out. He lunged, snatching the sock mid-air. I blinked. The frog was gone. ‘Where’d it go?’ I muttered, kneeling. A faint *squawk* echoed from the hallway. Following the sound, I found the frog lodged in the toilet tank, bobbing like a tiny green buoy. Biscuit stood guard, proud as a peacock. ‘You’re *not* getting that back,’ I said, yanking the frog free. He howled. I tossed it into the dishwasher. *Squeak.* The sound echoed through the house. Biscuit’s ears drooped. I sighed, dropping the frog into a cereal box. ‘You win,’ I said. Biscuit nuzzled my hand, slobber dripping onto my jeans. The TV played on, but now there was a new soundtrack: *squawk*, *squawk*, *squawk*.
